Some Compassion
by Stormcrown201
Summary: Dorian isn't expecting the so-called Herald to Andraste to be so vain. Or confident. Or charming. Or so compassionate and sympathetic to a man who tried to erase him from time.


_Ah, Haven. What a charming little frozen _dump_._

How anyone can stand to live here for so long, Dorian hasn't the faintest clue, and if the Disciples of Andraste had judged this the best place to keep Her Urn, well, that's just further proof of their madness, isn't it? Madness before they went mad, he supposes, considering they had been loyal enough guardians for centuries, but even so—small wonder they turned into a dragon cult at the end. Anything for a bit of _heat_, he'd wager, even if they knew nothing else.

And as for the current populace, well, he doesn't suppose he'll ever find a finer example of southern rusticism and small-mindedness. Word had got around quickly enough about who and what he was, and after a few days of a reception that was colder than the snow on the ground, he decided to retreat to a small, inconspicuous corner of the village, close to Solas, and hope for the best.

It isn't very like him to run away from scandal, he knows. And he doesn't want to run away, either. But if he's going to stay with the Inquisition, led in all but name by an elf who has every reason to be even more hostile than the villagers (though he has shown no signs of it thus far), then he might as well try to avoid stepping on too many toes, at least for the time being. Integrating the newly freed mages—and _there's_ a concept, here in the south—seems to be proving challenging enough without adding a high-born Tevinter to the mix.

So Dorian keeps to himself, observes the villagers and the soldiers and how they go about their lives, tries not to compare it too much to his home and fails horribly, and he grits his teeth against the cold that he's willing to bet is literally eating into his bones. He won't complain—much. He's been in worse places—barely.

On the fourth day of people watching, just as he's about to start tiring of the game, Dorian catches a figure approaching him out of the corner of his eye. A quick turn of his head, and there's the one they call the Herald, striding towards him. His red hair blows in the breeze, and he doesn't seem to notice the cold, though his tunic and trousers are rather form-fitting and not exactly thick (and look rather good on him, if Dorian's being quite honest), and he walks with the mien of a person who's spent his life at court, rather than in a forest. It is… interesting, certainly, how he keeps his shoulders squared and his hands behind his back, and there's an easy smile on his face that would not be out of place in the Imperial Court but for its sincerity and genuine warmth. Dorian has heard people describe Leas Lavellan as a magnet—well, he can see why now.

"The Inquisition supports free mages," he says casually as Leas reaches him, and the elf does not seem at all thrown by the fact that he started without even greeting him. Indeed, he positions himself next to Dorian as if it's only natural and proper for him to be here, without even the slightest trace of worry or hostility. Strange, really. He has the most reason to hate him—and yet he's the friendliest of them all by far and away. Perhaps falling through time together is enough to overcome any barriers… but from all he's heard, Leas seems to be like this with everyone.

"What's next?" he continues, encouraged by Leas' apparent friendliness to remain in this light-hearted vein. "Elves running Halamshiral? Cows milking farmers?"

Leas chuckles and throws his head back as he does, and Dorian allows himself to relax somewhat. But just as he's beginning to think his joke landed well, Leas glances at him out of the corner of those stunning blue eyes and says dryly, "You make my people running a city sound unnatural, like something that's not meant to be. Even like something that's against nature. I think I know what you meant, but _mind your phrasing_, please."

There's no real note of warning in his voice, but still, Dorian stops and checks himself. _Yes, I suppose saying that in the same breath as 'cows milking farmers?' could be taken to mean it's against the laws of nature,_ he thinks. He's heard worse, much worse, but again—he won't step on any toes. Not yet. Not with a near-complete stranger whose lack of hostility to him is disconcerting and sure not to last.

"Hmm. I did, didn't I?" he concedes, though his tone remains light. There are worse offences than this, no doubt. "Apologies. I didn't mean it _quite_ like that…"

Thankfully, that seems to satisfy Leas, who shoots him an easy smile and leans back into the wall of the building behind them, brushing a strand of hair out of his face. "Don't worry. As I said, I think I know what you meant." At that, Dorian exhales in mild relief and drops the matter, and Leas continues, "Anyway. I take it you don't agree with my choice?"

Dorian shakes his head and glances down to better look Leas in the eye. Again, for a moment, he's caught off-guard by the colour of said eyes—more intensely blue than any other pair he's ever seen, Maker's breath—but he recovers himself soon enough, unlike the first time they met. "On the contrary. I approve. Heartily," he says. "But I do wonder if you've considered what this support of yours will do. Conditional though it may be. For mages in general, I mean. The Inquisition is seen as an authority. You've given southern mages licence to… well, be like mages back home." Perhaps that's overstating things—there's a difference between mage freedom and the general insanity and murderousness of his countrymen, and it's one he wishes the southern Chantry would grasp, but as the saying goes, if you give someone an inch…

A legitimate concern, no doubt, especially for a Dalish elf (that is the correct term, isn't it?). But Leas only shrugs and looks up at him, a rather _cheeky_ smile crossing his face, and Dorian raises an eyebrow because he's well-acquainted with what happens when attractive men start flashing that particular look at each other, even if they rarely do it so openly back home. "I don't know," Leas says, tone casual and almost airy, "You seem a good man. If my support means they're anything like you, I approve."

Oh, _charming_, indeed. Dorian grins. "Hah! There aren't many mages back home like me," he says, like it's a fact of life—which it is—and Leas chuckles.

"I'll believe that," he says, then he adds, "Take that however you will," and Dorian's grin widens for a moment. Perhaps it's too soon to tell, but the odds seem in his favour that the man will be open to the witty repartee he so enjoys and might even be a halfway competent participant. It would be nice if he were; Dorian has found that sort of banter to be in short supply in the south.

"I never fit in," he remarks after a moment. "Bloodstains are so difficult to clean."

He would say more, but Leas cuts across him with a sympathetic grimace and a wave of his hand. "_Ugh,_ aren't they just? A dreadful inconvenience," he says, as though he were another spoiled noble rather than someone who's undoubtedly spent his life grubbing about in the dirt and other such unsanitary things. "Though I prefer blood to darkspawn gunk."

Dorian shoots him a curious glance. "Aren't you Dalish? I thought you wouldn't have minded a bit of dirt," he says, well aware this time that he's running his mouth off. Thankfully, Leas again doesn't seem to mind.

"There's a difference between dirt and blood, mud, and other such things that take far too long to get out of this hair of mine," he informs him with another laugh and a toss of self-same hair, red waves that look like they've been finely and carefully groomed and reach down to his shoulders. There's more than a little vanity in the gesture, the action screaming _look at me look at me_, and Dorian is all too happy to oblige him. The man's hair _is_ lovely, and for half a moment, some foolish part of him wonders what it would be like to run his hand through it, it looks so silken and soft… "Though it's true," he continues, and Dorian finds himself glad for the distraction from the direction his thoughts are taking. "Most of my clanmates think I'm a little _too_ obsessed with my cleanliness. But never mind them. I've got a gift, and I don't _squander_ my gifts." He rests his other hand on his hip and leans into it as he does so, and Dorian again obliges him and looks him over.

_Isn't he confident,_ he thinks, with another grin. _A gift indeed._ For half a moment, he also wonders if the man might be flirting, but he shakes the thought soon enough. From all he's heard, Leas is this confident and charming with everyone, men and women alike, and what he's seeing here is simply proof of those words.

"A man after my own heart," he says once he's looked Leas over, just as confident and willing to play, and Leas beams at him, like there's a camaraderie there. Absurd, really, when one considers it, but it _is_ nice to have that familiarity, regardless. "I'm glad _someone_ here has some concept of cleanliness and hygiene."

"The Dalish elf, no less," Leas retorts cheerfully. There's a moment of surprisingly comfortable silence, considering the fact they haven't known each other for long, and that he's a Tevinter while Leas is Dalish, and that the only occasion where they've spent a considerable amount of time together was under some of the most bizarre circumstances imaginable. Then Leas redirects the subject back to Dorian's original point. "Anyway, are you saying we're doomed to a future of blood magic and… more besides?"

"Not at first," Dorian tells him, smile fading as he contemplates the possibilities, "but you'd be a fool not to see where this could lead even with some templars present. Thing is, the Imperium was once just like the south. Templars, proper Circles, all that rot. Then it changed. By inches. Not that this is reason to oppress us. Still, my homeland should be a cautionary tale, not a source of inspiration." He recalls Linnea, that foolish mage at Redcliffe who looked at Tevinter and only saw mage freedom—never mind the rampant corruption, murder, and concentration of power in the hands of families such as his own, among other such charming qualities—and he hopes there aren't so many like her who need… enlightenment.

Leas nods and shoots him a wry smile. "I'll make sure of that. That's twice now your countrymen have involved me in ridiculously traumatic events. To say nothing of our peoples' history," he says, and his tone is far too light for Dorian's tastes.

For half a moment, he considers commenting, but at that moment, he recalls what little Leas has said about the first traumatic event he got caught up in with Tevinters—namely, that it involved him and a bunch of other elves being thrown into a cage. It doesn't take much to extrapolate what might have happened from there: a sacrifice or slavery, one or the other, especially considering how desperate Leas was to get his countrymen out of Ferelden as soon as possible before they could cause another catastrophe. No doubt the memory drives him, but that's not a discussion Dorian is prepared to have, not with a relative stranger, no matter how friendly he is.

Instead, he shakes his head and thinks of the second occasion, of how shaken Leas was by the time they returned to the present. He kept it together remarkably well throughout their little detour, but by the end, he'd clearly had enough, not that Dorian could blame him. "I won't even ask about the first time. For what it's worth, I'm sorry you had to go through all that."

Leas inclines his head. "Thank you. I am, as well. For you, I mean," he says. "I know it was terrible for you to see what had become of Alexius."

Dorian looks away. "You could say that."

"Have you gone to see him yet?" Leas asks. "He's in the cells."

A faint grimace crosses over his face, and he bows his head for a moment. That's something else where the less he thinks about it, the better, though he knows he'll have to man up and face him, eventually. What's left of him, at any rate. "Not yet, no. I saw him before they locked him up. He looked… despondent. Broken. Not the man I remember, nor the one I want to." For a moment, he recalls Alexius as he once was: a man of zeal, like so many other Tevinters, but properly applied, and who'd sometimes seemed more of a father to him than his _actual_ father, at least after he'd discovered the man's little scheme. But he just as quickly turns away from that thought, muscles tensing with the pain of it.

"I suppose the Inquisition will judge him eventually," he says heavily, after a long pause. "I wonder if there's any chance they'll show him mercy. He hardly deserves it, but for Felix's sake, I can't help hoping there's _something_ left of the man I once knew." Not the subtlest way of asking for mercy, he knows, nor is turning to look Leas in the eye as he speaks, but what else can he do?

Of course, it occurs to him mere moments later, Leas may have no inclination to be merciful. Alexius _is_ a magister, and his actions were reprehensible regardless of what his intentions were, and Leas is a Dalish elf, and just because he's been friendly enough to Dorian himself (and to Felix, for that matter) and even expressed his sympathies when Dorian grieved for Alexius' future self doesn't mean he'll show any kindness to the man. But that idea has scarcely crossed his mind when he focuses on Leas' expression and sees him nodding, seeming almost thoughtful. There's that look in his eyes that was there before, one of compassion and understanding, and it makes his eyes resemble a kicked puppy's, and Dorian can't help but stare for a moment—_again_; how does the man do it?—before he remembers himself.

"He did it all to save his son," Leas says after a while. "It was wrong, but I understand where he's coming from. Trust me, when we judge him, I'll make sure it's taken into account."

Dorian's shoulders sag with relief. "Thank the Maker," he murmurs. "And thank _you_. I don't want him to get off scot-free, but…"

"No. I understand, truly. I would be lying if I said I can't see things from his perspective, and he surrendered willingly, and in all respects, it could have been far worse. Besides, if Felix _is_ going to die, then I won't rub salt in the wounds. He'll have a hard enough time as it is…" It's Leas' turn to look away, and Dorian for a moment is silent as he wonders how the man can have so much empathy for a complete stranger who tried to erase him from time.

"I appreciate it, but how do you understand? How can you be so kind to him after what he tried to do you?" he asks.

Leas blows out a breath and leans back against the wall again, looking at Dorian out of the corner of his eye. "I have a son of my own, actually," he says, and Dorian's eyebrows lift. "Adhlean. He would have just turned ten. He's timid, but as kind and sweet a boy as they come, and I miss him greatly." Again, the expression in his eyes changes: now there is the distant fondness of one remembering a person from whom he has been separated, with a dash of the same parental affection Dorian saw in Alexius' eyes whenever he looked at Felix. Leas sighs. "I've never had cause to fear for his life, but if I were faced with the same situation that Alexius was? If there was even a _chance_ I could save him? I can't guarantee I wouldn't go a little insane trying to take that chance, no matter what the consequences."

Dorian stares at him for a long moment. _A father? Of a ten-year-old boy? He seems too young—he can't be more than twenty-six._ He tries to imagine it, Leas sitting at a campfire and reading to a boy with similarly red hair and blue eyes, or whatever it is Dalish parents do with their children, but the image remains mostly beyond his grasp. It seems so… if not impossible, then certainly _improbable_. And if he has a ten-year-old son, then what was he doing at the Conclave, away from his clan?

But those seem rather too personal questions to be asking, and so Dorian settles for potentially running his mouth off yet again. "What is it with parenthood and people turning into maniacs to protect their children," he mutters, and yet again, Leas takes no offence. Indeed, he laughs.

"I guess people do crazy things in the name of love," he says, and Dorian stiffens beside him, but Leas doesn't seem to notice. After a second or two, he sobers. "In all seriousness, the idea of outliving Adhlean is… rather terrifying. It's… not right for parents to bury their children, the old should predecease the young, et cetera, et cetera. I've never been in Alexius' shoes, but maybe I don't need to. I can imagine how he must feel—and if I felt it myself, a terror so overwhelming and powerful and _wrong_? Well, rationality is usually the first thing to disappear in such situations…"

"Tell me about it," Dorian mutters, and he tries not to take too much offence. Leas knows nothing of his own parents. "Well, let's hope you're never faced with Alexius' situation."

"I pray not," Leas says. There's another silence, longer and less comfortable this time, and eventually, Leas exhales. "I'll talk to him when I can. Once the mages have settled in. I think I should say something, give him my consolations… for whatever it's worth… It seems wrong if I don't."

"You—console him? What?" The moment the words are out of his mouth, Dorian curses his lack of eloquence, but he's so incredulous that he can't bring himself to care. "I'm sorry, I can't wrap my head around that. You would… console a man who tried to kill you?"

Leas smiles wryly and looks at Dorian out of the corner of his eye. "I would. I'm trying to be decent to him, Dorian. He might not deserve it, but…"

"_Decent?_ You call that _decent?_"

Leas chuckles. "'Compassionate' sounded too self-aggrandising," he says. "I take it it's not the most common quality among the Tevinter aristocracy."

"That's putting it mildly," Dorian admits. "But there's a difference between common decency and _compassion_. Even the best of us would not be so forgiving. I can't imagine most Dalish elves would be, either!"

"I'm not sure if I forgive him," Leas says, folding his arms casually. "I only… I feel terrible for him. He's in a horrible situation, he joined up with the Elder One out of desperation rather than a desire for power, and now his last hope's been crushed, and in all likelihood, he may never see his son again. Alive, anyway. And you told me what he was: a man to whom you once compared all others."

Dorian nods slowly, but he furrows his brow.

Leas shrugs and looks away again. "Perhaps I'm insane," he muses. "My clanmates have called me such before. But I pity him… not only for what he's gone through, but for what he became. It doesn't excuse what he did, but… this isn't the first time I've seen people get twisted into something they're not by their baser emotions. I've always found it to be horribly tragic. Worthy of pity. It doesn't matter if one's a slave or a Keeper or a priestess or a magister—everyone has the potential for good. Alexius was _doing_ good, judging from what I've been told. And he turned into… that. So it's… I don't just understand where he's coming from. I… _regret_ that he turned out like this. Stranger or no. All the good he could have done, and it's… ruined."

Dorian is torn between nodding in profound agreement, for Alexius could _indeed_ have done so much if he hadn't lost his mind to his grief, and staring in stunned disbelief at the sheer amount of _idealism_ he's just heard. For a stranger to experience so much pity for the wasted goodness and loss of potential in one who tried to kill him… such things are unheard of in Tevinter, at least among the upper classes. Perhaps here in the south, it's nothing more than a bit of basic kindness, but part of him wants to lap it up like a man lost in a desert would water, and another part wants to push it away because _no one_ is this naïve, this… sweet. "You want to be good to him because you regret that he turned away from doing good himself?" he says, voice flat, and again he curses his lack of eloquence.

Leas only nods. "Like I said, maybe I'm insane. But I don't hate him. I just feel sorry for him. And that makes me want to be good to him even as I make sure he suffers the consequences of his actions." To prove his point, he stares up at Dorian with those kicked puppy eyes again. Dorian has spent enough time around his fellow high-born to recognise when someone's putting up a mask—that's all they ever do when they're not trying to kill each other—and this, he can see, isn't it. The kindness, the sympathy, the sorrow in his eyes… they're all genuine. _Painfully_ genuine.

He shakes his head, still incredulous. "Well… _thank you_ on his behalf," he eventually manages, almost spluttering, "but that bleeding heart of yours is going to get you killed someday. You wouldn't last five seconds in Tevinter with it."

"Thankfully, we're not in Tevinter," Leas says smoothly, with a grin. "And if I can survive a trip through time and the Conclave explosion and… everything else… then I _think_ I can survive my bleeding heart."

Dorian is about to respond, but at that moment, he hears Cassandra's voice, almost on the wind. "Herald!" she shouts, in the tone of someone who has been searching fruitlessly for some time and is growing increasingly annoyed.

"But can you survive Cassandra?" he teases, and Leas laughs aloud, pushes off the wall, and steps away.

"I survived her when she thought I'd caused the explosion. I'll survive her now," he says with a shrug of his shoulders, and Dorian can't help but smile almost _admiringly_ at the man's confidence. Perhaps he tempts fate with every word he speaks… but it's nice to see someone who isn't so consumed with doubt, he realises. Someone who's so… self-assured, and charming, and kind, and above all, _genuine_. An interesting combination—or is it only interesting because it's so rare in Tevinter?

"Anyway," Leas says. "It was good talking to you, Dorian. I'll be back later, I promise."

"I'll hold you to that," Dorian tells him, and Leas grins and walks away. He leaves him with a strange sensation in his gut that he's probably better off not contemplating.

At least, not right now.


End file.
